


out in the fields

by owilde



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Fluff With Very Little Plot, M/M, Relationship Reveal, Short & Sweet, Slice of Life, Two fools in love, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, obviously, set pre-war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 11:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12107412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: "Oliver," Flint said – whined – and leaned close for another kiss. "I absolutely will not indulge you on your sick fantasies.""You've been more than happy to indulge in the past," Oliver grinned. "Remember when—"He was cut off by a shocked voice saying his name. "Wood? And—Flint?"





	out in the fields

**Author's Note:**

> lo and behold, i've finally fallen victim to writing for obscure pairings! tune in for more next time, but right now; my fave quidditch losers in love

Oliver quite regretted his entire life, on hindsight.

There had been a game against Slytherin, and they'd won – obviously, they'd won. Oliver had never doubted it, because his team was, right now, the best it had ever been in all the years he'd been at Hogwarts. The Weasleys were like shooting stars, flying around the field with such precision and dedication; Johnson, Spinnet and Bell were lightning bolts, scoring goal after goal; Potter had been… well, Potter had always been a rough diamond, and now, with practice, he was truly starting to shine. And so, it was because of their own merits that they'd taken the victory today—

Except.

Except, there was a lingering feeling in the back of Oliver's mind that something was  _wrong_. Something that he couldn't put his finger on, something that felt  _off_ , so much so that, when they were enjoying their well-deserved after party that night, Oliver quietly slipped outside after only a few drinks.

No one followed him, though Fred shot him a questioning look as Oliver pressed the common room door shut behind him.

The game had been too easy. Oliver would've almost claimed that the Slytherin team had  _let_ them win, if it weren't for the fact that there was no way Flint would ever let his pride aside for long enough to do that. He was similar enough to Wood – in Quidditch, you played to win or you didn't play at all. Which was why Oliver didn't understand today's match.

Flint had been off his game – and perhaps it hadn't been as noticeable to others, but Oliver  _knew_ how he played and  _knew_ what Flint was capable of, what the entire Slytherin team was capable of – and he'd seen none of it today.

It had been too easy.

Flint hadn't even snarled at him once, afterwards.

Oliver found himself wandering outside, feeling the cool night air caress his face as he marched across the yard. Reaching the outskirts of the castle, he leaned against its wall, hands in his pockets. The stars were twinkling above, reflecting on the dark surface of the lake. There were no ripples – on a whim, Oliver picked up a stone and threw it in the water, watching the reflection of the stars wobble and twist.

"Why so aggressive, Wood?" A voice called out, somewhere to his left. "Thought you won today."

Oliver turned his head slightly. Flint was standing in the dusk, keeping his distance. His face looked ashen – not too different from its usual complexion, but this time it felt different. Oliver frowned, letting his shoulders relax.

"Yeah," he agreed. "We really beat your arses, didn't we?"

Flint hummed, and stepped closer to Oliver.

"Guess you did," Flint said. There was a silence as he slowly made his way towards Oliver and then stopped next to him, staring at the lake. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be celebrating with the rest of the Gryffindor scum?" His voice lacked the usual edge and conviction.

"Didn't feel like celebrating," Oliver admitted. "What are  _you_ doing out here?"

Flint's eyes flickered. "Well," he started dryly, "I really don't think you have the privilege of knowing that, Wood."

Oliver snorted, before he could stop himself. "Privilege, huh? And what, pray tell, should I do to earn this  _privilege_?"

Flint edged closer. Their arms pressed together. "I don't know," he said, lightly. "A kiss would be a nice start."

Oliver smiled at the ground, shaking his head fondly. "Two years," he chuckled. "And you still have to ask?"

The next thing he knew, Oliver was pressed against the wall with Flint's hands on either side of his head.

"I'm a polite sort of bloke," he mumbled, his nose nearly pressed against Oliver's. "You would know."

Their eyes met, and Oliver's smile widened. "My parents adore you, that's for sure. They asked me to bring you over next Christmas – said you were the politest Slytherin they've ever met."

They'd gushed over Marcus after Oliver had brought him home around their first anniversary.  _He's such a sweet boy_ , his mother had said over her cup of tea one night after Flint had left.  _Please do tell whenever you feel like proposing, I'll slip you great grandma's old ring._ Oliver had choked on a biscuit.

"I do try," Flint said. He tilted his head, pressing a soft kiss on Oliver's lips. "Christmas, huh. Do I have to wear a tie?"

Oliver laughed. His hands found their way over to Flint's waist. "Would be preferable," he said. "But then,  _I_ think you look dashing with or without it."

"You'd think I'd look dashing in a garbage bag," Flint drawled, but the corners of his eyes were crinkled. "Which, for the record, has never happened."

"But you might be persuaded?"

Flint laughed, and Oliver's stomach flipped. His face didn't look quite as ashen anymore. " _Oliver_ ," he said – whined – and leaned close for another kiss. "I absolutely will not indulge you on your sick fantasies."

"You've been more than happy to indulge in the past," Oliver grinned. "Remember when—"

He was cut off by a shocked voice saying his name. "Wood? And— _Flint_?"

Oliver felt Marcus drop his head to the crook of his neck and sigh against his skin. Oliver squinted his eyes in the dark, and saw Fred and George standing side by side a few feet away from them. They looked, simultaneously, shell-shocked and profoundly confused.

"Um," Oliver said, eloquently. "This… this isn't…" He licked his lips, and sighed. Flint felt warm against him in the cold of the night, and his nose was still pressed against Oliver's neck, and his lips were brushing his skin. "What are you doing here?" He attempted instead.

"We came looking for you," Fred said. "You just sort of disappeared. We thought that, well, he must be hiding something—"

"—but we didn't quite think  _this_ was it," George finished.

"Well," Oliver said, and he was proud of the fact that his voice was only slightly trembling. He'd never really expected to be doing this, had never thought he'd have to. "I hope this won't be a problem. I don't want it to be a problem. This is—" but he didn't know how to finish the sentence, and it drifted off.

"So, you two are a thing?" George asked.

Oliver felt Flint mumble something against his skin, before he finally lifted his head and turned around. "Yes, Weasley, we're together. Have been the past two years. Is that a problem?"

Fred and George raised their brows in perfect synchrony. "Two years?"

Oliver felt his cheeks flush. "Well, more like two and a half," he mumbled. "But who's counting?"

"Two years, four months, three days," Flint said. He glanced at Oliver with a lifted brow. " _I'm_ counting."

"'Course you bloody are," Oliver replied, but his lips kept tugging up. "Sap."

"Says the one who bought me fucking enchanted roses that change colour along with the weather for my birthday," Flint countered.

"They're practical," Oliver argued. "For Quidditch."

"Hang on," Fred said, lifting his hands in surrender. "Mate, you've got to walk us through this one."

"You and Flint? How does that even  _happen_?" George continued.

Oliver shrugged. "I don't know. It's—we just got to talking, one time, after a match. And then we continued talking, and spending time with each other, and—you know."

"And then Oliver had a sexuality crisis and cried to me about it and I told him to get his shit together, and he responded by kissing me," Flint interjected, and Oliver elbowed him in the ribs.

"We do not talk about it," he warned. "I thought we agreed."

"I don't want them to have a false image of our relationship," Flint said, blinking at him innocently. "Details are important, Wood."

Oliver rolled his eyes. Why he put up with Flint was beyond him.

"… Right," Fred said slowly. "Right. Sure. I've seen weirder things."

"We sure have," George agreed.

"And besides, who are we to step in the middle of what is obviously the love story—"

"—of the decade."

Flint looked positively offended. " _Just_ a decade? I figured at least the century."

Fred and George smiled wickedly. "Can't be the couple of the century if no one knows you  _are_ a couple," Fred said.

"Shame," George added.

They disappear, the sounds of their giggling following them behind the corner before vanishing into the air.

Oliver turned to look at Marcus. "Do you want to be the power couple of the century?" He asked, smiling a little.

"That's sort of what I was thinking about today," Flint confessed. "You know. Telling people."

"Are you trying to say that that's why you lost?" Oliver smirked. "Because that's just false."

Flint pressed closer to him. "Don't be a smartass," he said. "Do you want to do this or not?"

Oliver thought about it for a second. He gave a little nod. "Yeah," he said. "Let's do this."

When Flint then kissed him on the pitch after their next match, and pure chaos erupted – well, Oliver really had no one to blame but himself.


End file.
